Daily life at 221C
by Betony
Summary: Samara Warden has just moved into 221C and is now the unsuspecting neighbor of the famed consulting detective and friend. Not like she cares, yet.
1. Chapter 1

Just a senseless story that kept popping up in my head. No real plot. Just for fun.

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221C was a small cheap place, the only flat Samara could afford for the time being in a place like London. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson (kind woman, who even offered to make the young woman tea, though she stressed, 'just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper'), admitted to the room being hard to rent out as it was a basement flat, prone to mold. Nonetheless, Samara agreed to rent it out anyways.

Mrs. Hudson assured her it was the same dimensions as the other flats, it was just the lighting that made it seem smaller. "What you think dear?" The dark-eyed woman wondered nervously, she was anxious to rent this place out it seems.

"Cheap, affordable, close to work," the American mused, looking around the damp room where the only light source came from a curtained floor to ceiling window, next to a wooden door leading to stairs connected to the side alley. Samara smiled, turning to face the short-aged woman. "Do you accept pets?"


	2. Chapter 2

Even when a week passed, Samara quite liked the flat. While the lighting was limited, it still lit up the room in a soft glow she thoroughly enjoyed while drawing. The space was wide and open, allowing her to spread out her materials and easel without being cramped in her room; the complementary couch was often used as a surface to hold her paints and pencils, while the chairs and actual desk had multiple things scattered around. And she never had a fireplace before, so the aesthetic was pleasing. Even her dog, Alecto, enjoyed it, the matured German Shepherd often lounging at Samara's feet when the young woman was taking a break from completing a commission or resting after work.

While the brunette often used the alley to enter her flat through the side door to avoid any unnecessary social interaction with the other tenants, she still caught glances of them on the streets, using the 221B entrance. A short sandy blonde haired man with hardened brown eyes, and a willowy tall man with curly dark hair and the coldest blue eyes she's ever seen. When she looked at them walking side-by-side, lost in mutual conversation, the amber-eyed woman was often reminded of the complimentary colors; the short man was vibrant orange and the taller was calculating blue.

Samara was just working on a commission for some businessman (a portrait to hang in one of his summer houses of London), AC/DC TNT just came on her music speaker, when a knock at the door woke her dog up and started to bark.

" _A la chingada_ ," The fair-skinned Hispanic harshly pushed herself from her seat with a harsh growl, " _Cierra la pinche boca_!"

Alecto immediately ceased her barking, but stayed by the door, equally as curious as her owner for who could be knocking on her door in the middle of the afternoon. It was probably Mrs. Hudson, offering Samara for a nice chat.

Though when she opened the door, the young woman was shocked to find it wasn't the kindly old woman but her neighbors, the complimentary pair she often saw in the street.

The shorter man with brown eyes blinked when Samara yanked the door open, his raised fist allowing the brunette to easily deduce him being the one that woke her dog up in a barking fit. Nervously returning his hand back to his side, then wrung them together, the man spoke in a kind voice. "Oh, uh, hello miss. My name's John Watson." He then gestured to his seemingly uninterested partner, who quickly gave Samara a once over before attempting to glance into her apartment.

The brunette stepped out into the hall and closed the door (Alecto stepping out as well) just so he wouldn't do that and smirked when he looked back at the offending woman.

John gave an awkward pat to Alecto when the dog started sniffing the pair, painfully aware of his friends displeased stare directed to the woman they were supposed to be greeting. "And this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."

The dark-haired fellow, Sherlock Holmes, only continued to stare at Samara in scrutiny until John elbowed him. After giving a slight pout to his light-haired friend, the blue-eyed man gave Samara a terse and obviously forced smile, "Hi."

 _Oh, they're roommates_ , Samara gathered. For some reason, she thought they were dating; probably because they just meshed together so well.

After Alecto finished sniffing the pair, the large German Shepherd attempted to wander off. Samara sighed, quickly snapping her fingers in silent command that the liver and tan canine understood and obediently moved to stand right beside her owner.

John seemed visibly impressed, looking down at the dog in wonder at how intelligent she was, while Sherlock only quirked a brow when he made eye contact with the canine. Samara could tell why he had that reaction, after all, it isn't every day one saw a German Shepherd with hazel eyes.

"Samara Warden," The woman introduced, crossing her arms over her chest but still offered a polite nod. John seemed surprised at her clear American accent, while again Sherlock was indifferent. "That's Alecto, she's a mutt." Alecto thumped her tail against the wall and panted in excitement at hearing her name called. After a beat of silence, she leaned back. "Is that all or…"

Sherlock sighed while John looked surprised; did she say something wrong? "W-well, I just thought, we should stop by and introduce ourselves. After all, we do live in the same building."

The amber-eyed woman hummed in contemplation. He wasn't wrong, she mused. "I suppose you're right, it'd make living with a stranger less awkward if we knew each other." Taking a breath, Samara tried again, this time with her hands folded in front of her and a timid but honest smile. "I'm Samara, just moved here last week with my dog, Alecto, who's a cross between a Husky and German Shepherd, though looks more like a German Shepherd if it weren't for her eyes." She continued her monologue in a rushed tone. "I'm from Texas. 23 years of age. I moved to London because it was sort of on my bucket list and work part-time as a tutor for elementary to high school students. My hobbies include taking in commissions, drawing, listening to all types of music and any activity I can participate in involving my dog. I dislike prolonged human interaction and sincerely hope this will not be a regular occurrence."

While the shorter blonde haired man was, gobsmacked, Sherlock actively extended his hand, "Welcome to Baker Street."

* * *

 _A la chingada =_ fuck it

 _Cierra la pinche boca =_ shut the fuck up

Sorry about the Spanish curse words, they just make me smile sometimes.


	3. Chapter 3

Another two weeks passed before anything of note happened.

Samara was just walking her dog around London, occasionally stopping to take pictures of some interesting buildings or scenes she could draw or paint when she saw Sherlock and John dashing at neck-breaking speed after another bloke (as the English would say) up the street and… coming right for her.

Tilting her head, the brunette only debated for six seconds before jumping into action - literally.

Letting go of her dog's leash, Samara jumped out the strange man's way but took out her left leg, his eyes widening in shock when she tripped him.

As he landed on the sidewalk with a reverberating thump, Samara pointed at his black coated form. "Alecto, get him!"

Taking the command, the liver and tan German Shepherd barked once before pouncing on the man, grabbing him by the pant leg and growling him into submission, the strange man's screams of fear and pain could be heard for over three blocks and many passersby watched the scene with wide fearful eyes. Though they kept on their way once Sherlock panted out, "It's alright! Scotland Yard!" Brandishing a badge that calmed everyone down some.

Looking back, Samara placed her hands on her hips as Sherlock and John stumbled to a stop, both men panting and sweating from exertion. "Mind telling me why you two were chasing him," She requested with a slightly teasing tone. "Or did I just sic my dog on him for no reason?"

Sherlock was the one who answered, panting: "That man is wanted for a double homicide, so you did good."

"Huh," Samara looked back down at the man, who was now pinned by Alecto sinking her teeth into his shoulder. "Kind of feel like he deserves more than a dog attack."

John chuckled breathlessly as he kneeled down to twist the mans other arm behind his back. "Don't worry about it. The cops will show up and take him in soon enough. Where is Lestrade by the way?"

"We lost him a block away," Sherlock answered, somewhat collected now.

The young woman looked at her dog and snapped her fingers. "Alecto! Release." The canine easily complying and moved back to sniff Samara, panting excitedly. Reaching for the dog lease, Samara had to ask, "Do I have to wait here or can I go?"

The blue-eyed man nodded, waving her off. "Police will stop by for your statement and, don't worry too much, I doubt they'll allow this idiot to press charges on account of him resisting arrest and threatening bodily harm."

"What?!" The murderer screeched, struggling against John's hold. "But I -"

Samara nodded, with a slight smile. "Yes, I did feel threatened with a man barreling towards me in the street." Turning to continue her walk, she called out, "You know where to find me should you require anything else, provided you warn me 24 hours beforehand of course."


	4. Chapter 4

And warn her they did not. A few hours after her walk, there was a knock at the door and a man introducing himself as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade came in asking for a statement.

"And you're saying you had your dog attack him because you were scared for your life?" the man asked dubiously, to which Samara nodded, stirring her cuppa slowly. The two of them managed to clear off her chairs of paints and pencils when he decided to take her statement, still surrounded by nearly complete and freshly started canvases.

"Like I said," the brunette started, stirring her coffee, tapping the tiny spoon with three soft chimes against the white ceramic coffee cup. Her cognac-eyes shined with drollery. "He was a very intimidating man."

Lestrade pursed his lips at the American before heaving a tired sigh, flipping his pocket notebook closed and standing. "Well, Ms. Warden, thank you for your time and in helping us catch a very dangerous man."

Mimicking his standing motion and walking towards her rarely used door that led to the hall, Samara smiled politely. "No problem at all, detective."

Greg nodded, glancing down at Alecto and smiled, slowly moving to pat her head. "Good girl." The salt-and-pepper-haired man chuckled when the creature panted happily at his attention. Turning to face the young woman with curious brown-eyes, he asked, "By the way, who trained your dog? She's, well to put it bluntly, she's better trained than any of the dogs at Scotland Yard."

Samara shrugged. "I did." Taking in his surprised and doubtful expression, the brunette continued with a smirk. "My dad was a military officer and I took a college internship on base to train the K-9 unit and was hired on for a few years." She pointed to the wall where two frames hung, both supporting separate certificates. "I'm actually certified for animal training but not a lot of people think someone as young as I can do it, so I stuck to tutoring."

The DI hummed thoughtfully before handing her his card. "Well, if you ever feel like going back to animal training, go ahead and give me a call and I'll set something up."

The artist smiled brightly, giving a grateful nod. "Thank you, detective, I'll think about it. Have a nice day."

Nodding again, Lestrade left the premise then turned to move upstairs, possibly to take Sherlock and John's statement.

Oh dear, Samara chided herself. I forgot to ask if Sherlock and John worked with the police often like they said they did. After all, police don't just go to amateurs for help


	5. Chapter 5

The next couple of weeks did not go over so well. In fact, it was going horribly ever since she went on that walk and helped Sherlock.

Two days later, when she came back early from delivering her resignation letter to the Home Tutors Organization, she found strange men searching her apartment. They claimed to have been working for the police, but once she asked for their warrant or she'll call the cops, the three men made a dash for it out the door. Nothing was stolen and Alecto managed to secure one of the men, but the police let the man go!

Later, she was given a commission of a client's mother – a man who wanted his mother 'to look like the queen, make up a damn ball gown!' only giving her a single picture of the white-haired woman for reference and two weeks to finish it. She finished it in 10 days. After seeing the finished product, which was his mother staring out of the portrait with graceful arrogance decked out in a royal blue dressing down, necklace lined with pearls and ears pierced with diamonds, looking every which way royal and detail merely said, 'this will do'.

Not to mention the fact that her upstairs neighbor happens to like shooting his gun off when he's bored, or so John said when apologizing. Honestly, now Samara is starting to understand the real reason as to why the flat was so cheap.

It was when someone started calling her cell that things started to get weird.

After completing her horrendous interview with Scotland Yard to train their K-9 unit (the brunette woman was terrible at speaking with others, though Inspector Lestrade told her she did fine), Samara's phone started to go off. Thinking it was the Yard to inform her of whether she got the job or not, the woman quirked a brow before answering. That was fast, she thought, answering with a simple, "Hello?"

 _"Ms. Warden?"_ the voice on the other end sounded shocked. And familiar. The brunette looked down at her phone in confusion before placing it back on her ear, straining to hear the man say, _"Sherlock, how'd you get our neighbors number?"_

"Watson?" Samara finally realized why this voice was familiar when she heard the other name mentioned. "What do you want? No wait, firstly how'd you get this number?" She was slowly becoming frustrated and paranoid. No one other than the Yard and her family has this number.

There was mumbling on the other side of the line, John and Sherlock talking, before John came back on the line, speaking clearly and just as confused at the brunette. _"Sorry, yeah. Sherlock said he got the number off Lestrade."_ That would have been today since she only called the detective this morning. _"He – we were wondering if you could help us."_

The cognac woman furrowed her brows skeptically. "How…? I'm an Art Major, how is that any help to any of your… detective cases?"

 _"Sherlock says it's because of your expertise that we should come to you,"_ John explained with a hint of optimism. _"We could really use your help,"_ He tacked on.

Samara sighed, lifting a hand to hail a cab in vain. "I don't know…"

There was mumbling in the background before John sighed out. _"If you're worried about leaving your dog behind, Mrs. Hudson can watch over her while you're gone. No charge."_

Well, that took care of that, the American thought, but was still on the fence, humming thoughtfully.

It was then Sherlock came on the line. _"It involves murder and paint."_

Samara blinked and tilted her head up thoughtfully. "Well, that does sound interesting… Alright, you got me at paint."


	6. Chapter 6

While Sherlock did say to wear her best semi-formal dress, she was somewhat confused when he told her to meet them at Scotland Yard, even though she was finished going down there.

 _"Okay," the brunette drawled. "But why a formal dress? They'd just as easily let me in if I were wearing a skirt or a T-shirt."_

 _[All part of the plan, Ms. Warden] Sherlock replied impatiently. [But do hurry and, when you come in, play along will you?]_

 _"Play along?" She parroted, though before she could ask, the man was already speaking in a rush._

 _[Do try and come by in let's say… 25 minutes, there is much to do, thank you.] And he hung up._

So here she was, walking through the front doors of New Scotland Yard in a hand me down white halter dress, perfectly decorated with shimmering intricate designs and decorative silver studs along the bust, receding downward and stopping just above her mid frame.

Walking over to reception, Samara was just about to ask for Sherlock when Lestrade came around the corner, his eyes nearly popping out their sockets at what she was wearing. "OH, Sam– Ms. Warden, what are you doing here?" Walking over, he gave the woman an impressed but doubtful once over. "Are you the specialist Sherlock called?"

Not wanting to sound full of herself, and not knowing what he meant by 'specialist', the brunette nodded. "Sherlock called me, yeah. What's going on?"

Lestrade turned to the receptionist and asked for a visitor pass. While handing it to her, they walked down the hall, Samara doing her best to listen to his words while simultaneously ignoring everyone's stares. "There's been a murder last night, well actually a couple murders, but it's the strangest thing." Reaching the elevator, the silver haired man pressed a button to go down. "Whoever this guy is, he leaves behind paintings."


	7. Chapter 7

**I lied! There is Plot!**

 **I couldn't help myself, I'm sorry.**

 **I went back to the story cause I haven't updated in a while and this shit came up! But damn! Where it come from! Where did I go! Where did it come from Cotton-Eyed Joe!**

* * *

Walking into the evidence hall, Samara took to following Lestrade's lead. Turning left, the older man stopped and turned to her, giving the finely dressed woman a stern expression. "What you're about to see hasn't been told to anyone in the media, so please, don't tell anyone else, alright?"

After she gave a nod and voiced an affirmative, he continued on, opening a door to a nearly empty room aside from a few choice boxes filled with evidence and paper and the paintings hung on the opposite wall.

While two of these paintings were small and similar, depicting a teary-eyed man and woman on the two-separate canvas', there was one darker painting that caught her interest. It was one of the largest painting, 40 x 30, so it wasn't easy to glance over, not like she would have anyway. The composition was disturbingly dark, the model shown in the painting was terrified. A beautiful young woman, her eyes wide with fear and horror, her light hair was a mess and matted on one side of her head, while her entire body was shown, revealing a disheveled business woman. The woman had a gag around her mouth and was bound by her torso legs and feet, her hands behind her back. Everything around her was dying, a rotten skull visible in the lower right corner of the canvas, except for a lightly painted butterfly, leaving the canvas through the right where most of the light was coming from. Everything about the paintings were disturbing, especially how they were all painted monochromatic red.

"Ah, Samara, so glad you could make it." Turning around the amber eyed woman saw Sherlock and John walking over, the taller man impeccably dressed, as always, while John simply wore a faded blue button down and dark pants.

Samara shook her head with a smile, "You nearly sound as if you didn't ask for my help."

Sherlock gave a quick false smile, returning to his neutral indifferent expression. "Yes, quite." He turned to the paintings. "What can you tell by these paintings?"

"What makes you think I can tell you anything at all?" The brunette questioned haughtily, crossing her arms. She didn't mean to come off standoffish, but she was curious. What made this man think she can help them?

Sherlock rolled his head back, taking a breath. Samara didn't miss how John was shaking his head in resignation while Lestrade seemed to be looking up to the ceiling and mumbling something like, "Dear God, why?"

While she didn't initially know, she got her answer when Sherlock opened his mouth, looking back at her, but it was almost as if he was looking right through her. "You come from San Antonio, it's written all over your face; you already mentioned being from Texas and your father was a military detective or so Lestrade said. –"

Samara gave the mentioned man a quirked brow before looking back to Sherlock, confused and slightly unnerved.

"- 'But San Antonio, why San Antonio?' Because San Antonio is the largest city in Texas with multiple military bases, and because of your pictures I glanced at the day we met. There were pictures of the few Missions and the Alamo, along with the San Antonio River. You could've just been visiting, but your expressions were too bland and clothes fit in, you weren't tourists you lived there but went to see it to make memories before you moved here to London. You're a college graduate, Masters in Fine Arts **and** Bachelors in Animal Behavior. Obvious because of the diplomas that hung on your wall."

His face shifted to interested. "But why two separate majors? You enjoy animals, but not enough to focus on it, no, you have an affinity for the arts, and not just drawing. Back home, you most likely did train the K-9 unit at your father's military base to please him, but grew bored with it, so you started focusing on the Arts, and not just drawing, **_appraising_**. You enjoy analyzing the paintings, figuring out what makes them tick. I could tell by the multiple books concerning the effects of different paint brushes and the history of drawing, along with a few biographies of Artists. With your insight and passion, it's easy to deduce that you've judged paintings in the past back home, and now here in London, you still do from time to time but went back to training dogs because that's originally what your parents wanted, isn't it? A stable career for their wayward daughter. But that isn't what you want, is it? You _like_ training dogs. But you **love** appraising art, loved it so much you ran from home to attempt a fresh start, only to find yourself doing it all over again. Find yourself getting a 'real' job with a police station so you can have a sense of home but deep down you realize that this is exactly what happened back in the states, isn't that right?"

There was a pause, John looking between Sherlock and Samara as a tension filled the air.

Eventually Samara nodded. "… Yes. That's true." She carefully avoided Lestrade's gaze, looking down at her cream-colored flats. "All of it."

The blue-eyed man nodded, his eyes bland though held a certain self-pride into them. "Then it wouldn't be hard for you to judge this painting, now would it?" He gestured to the paintings.

Samara sighed, glaring lightly at the man. "You can be a real ass, do you know that."

John nodded, quickly answering, "Oh he's well aware." Before Sherlock could open his mouth, earning an indignant expression from the raven haired man and a smight smirk from the girl he just read like a book.


	8. Chapter 8

Taking a step to them, Samara gave each painting a glance of scrutiny. After a while, she spoke up. "This isn't normal paint," She said. "It's not acrylic or oil-based. Too thick for watercolor…"

"The killer uses the blood of his victims to paint his pictures," Lestrade pointed out, looking over the paintings as well. "Samples of the paint were taken and when we found out it was blood, we analyzed them and found a match to all the victims in the portraits." He pointed to the last one. "Except for her. This painting was found with a male Vic and his blood matched with the picture, but the woman is a mystery."

"Subject Matter, not 'pictures'." Samara corrected automatically, eyes flitting over the second portrait. "His victims are his subject matter, what his art is all about." She glanced to the DI. "These aren't just pictures to him."

"So why leave them at the crime scene?"

"His signature," Sherlock deduced. "He wants to be known, and something tells me his art isn't getting any real attention. The better question is, why did he paint a woman instead of his male victim?"

"So, we've got one dead female, two dead males, a picture of a dead male, a picture of a dead woman and another of his next victim who is female," Lestrade pointed out ending with a sigh and glance to Samara. He seemed to still be having doubts on to if she could even help. "Do you have anything?"

Samara sighed, leaning back. "Well, it's nothing I've ever seen." She gestured at the paintings. "Unlike the first two, this one –" she pointed to the last painting. "Has a different style to it. He spent all his time detailing the first two, with line brush and blending, but this Scumbling and blending."

"We have two killers?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock shrugged. "It is a possibility; can you tell anything else or was calling you a waste of time?"

The brunette tapped her chin, too focused on the last painting to give his insult time to simmer. "Don't be an ass, it makes you ugly." Ignoring the snort from Lestrade, Samara furrowed her brows and leaned in closer to the last painting, practically able to smell the blood and something else. "He used a Matte Finish, so he treats the blood as an acrylic. As an acrylic paint, it needs to be thick but smooth so why…" Her eyes widened and she grinned. "Of course! That's what I was missing!"

"What? What is it?" John and Sherlock shared similar expressions of confusion. "What do you see?"

Samara shook her head, looking at the three paintings and finding their similarities. "It isn't about what I 'see', it's about what's missing. What do you notice about these paintings?"

"They're morbid," Lestrade answered with a confused and disgusted edge to his tone.

"They're pic – subject matter is his victims," John answered as well. "Or at least, next victim," He corrected, glancing to the third painting.

Sherlock quickly glanced the paintings before looking to Samara with a quirked brow. "They're all finely detailed and were found days after the victims were reported missing, along with the body."

Her face was still beaming, ecstatic that she noticed something they had yet to realize. "Yes. Yes. And – thank you for that added detail – yes! But that's not it." She waved her hands around. "They all don't have brush strokes!"

The silver haired DI gave the woman a doubtful look. "So, you're saying our killer finger painted these?"

Samara blinked, brows furrowing in frustration and confusion. "What?! No!" Her smile returned when Sherlock stepped closer to look at paintings with a focused expression. "When an artist paints, it is very important as to what types of brushes they use. Like natural hair brushes or synthetic hair brushes. Synthetic brushes are often nylon or polyester and are rougher on the canvas but natural brushes are gentler –"

Sherlock whipped around to face the woman. "Yes, yes, do get on with it."

"I am," Samara growled, annoyed at being interrupted. She shook her head, gesturing to the canvases. "But all these paintings used the same brushes – a natural hair brush, but not just any brush." She paused for dramatic effect, her grin slowly widening. "A badger hair brush."

"Badger hair?" Sherlock quipped, stuffing his hands in his pockets. It was obvious his mind was working a hundred miles a minute but has failed to grasp the significance of this find. And judging by everyone else's expression, he wasn't alone.

"And Brits say American's are ignorant," Samara mumbled before continuing, crossing her arms over her chest. "Badger's hair brushes leave no brush strokes at all, being the gentlest brushes in the art world – as far as I know. They are also, the most expensive."

That brought everybody back. "So, whoever did this is either missing some expensive brushes or –"

"Some rich wanker is our killer," Lestrade nodded, quickly moving to walk out the door. "I'm going to make some calls, you guys –" He pointedly looked to Sherlock. "Try and stay out of trouble."

When the door was firmly shut, Samara turned to the impressed John and now indifferent Sherlock, who was fumbling with his phone. "Now then," she started, arms still cross and expression stern. "Either I'm wearing this dress for no reason or –" She gave a quick frown. "You have more to this plan."

Sherlock gave a quirked brow, still buried in his phone, a tight frown in place. "For an American, you are surprisingly perceptive." He then looked up and gestured for her to follow.

While Samara gave the man an offended stare, John shook his head, smiling in apology. "Sorry, he's always like that." And gently ushered her to go on. Evidently, this day was going to get a lot weirder.


	9. Chapter 9

**I know it's been a while and it is very short, but I am working on it - I swear!**

 **You guys are awesome, thank you.**

* * *

As Samara feared, her assumption was correct.

While Sherlock was convinced the killer was an aspiring artist, he initially planned to hit art exhibitions planned for this week – as the killings increased with the coming date, leaving him to believe the killer was frustrated and venting through murder. Though when Samara helped narrow down the possible killers, he too narrowed the local exhibitions to presenters who came from wealthy backgrounds and found one.

The United Visual Artist Exhibition was scheduled for the same night, eight to ten. The benefactor was Benjamin Halms, his son being one of the main artist showing. Young Thomas James Halms fit the criteria of being the serial killer.

Antisocial, withdrawn, morbid curiosity (basically the same characteristics of an everyday artist), but wealthy and a history of having his artwork going underappreciated.

As she walked around the show, purposefully lingering her attention of many of Thomas Halms' work, she recalled what Sherlock advised her to do.

 _"We already know he's the killer, but considering his wealth we need absolute proof of his guilt before he has time to flee, so that's where you come in."_

 _Samara ran her hand down her face, "Dear God you wanted me to be decoy."_

 _The black-haired man dismissed her exasperation. "Oh, you catch on quick, now I don't have to explain it to you."_

 _"Sherlock," John chided. "You can't just make her be decoy without her knowing."_

 _"But I am letting her know," Sherlock argued in confusion. "Considering his recent victims are females, he will be naturally inclined to her and if she were to get him alone and back to his place, we can gather evidence and – as the American's do love to say – 'nail the bastard'."_

And so here she was, hyperaware of the killers' stare on her as she looked over an eerie red monochromatic painting of a decrepit chapel.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Thomas appeared by her side, looking to his large canvas with pride.

"Morbidly fascinating," Samara agreed plainly before offering her hand. "Kelsey Wing. I take it you're the artist behind this?"

Thomas enclosed his hand around hers. "Of course." His hand was cold. Pulling away, he gazed around his works. "You seem to be the only one interested in my works."

 _[You're a fellow artist,] Sherlock told her when they stopped in front of the exhibition. [Find a way that will get him to prove he's the killer. Entice him, ridicule him, whatever it takes.]_

"Other people probably just don't have good taste," Samara tried for charming, looking back at the man with a smile. "Are these your only works? I'd love to see more."

Thomas blinked, a slow grin forming. "Truly? Fantastic! Of course, if you will..."

 _This is easy_ , Samara thought warily as the serial killer started guiding her out the building to his car. Chancing a glance, she saw Sherlock and John staring at her with mild approval and great concern respectively. In response, before entering the car, she gave them her own unique expression – her ' _this better not get me killed'_ expression.


	10. Chapter 10

Samara didn't know how to feel at the moment. Staring ahead from the back of an ambulance while a gurney passed with an injured serial killer and a third ambulance left to take an unconscious woman to the hospital for a quick blood transfusion, the amber-eyed woman continued to stare blankly as she recalled the events that led up to this moment in time.

 _Two hours prior, Thomas took her to his mansion – beautiful place with blue bricks and white framed windows – the inside of which did not disappoint. His foyer was decorated with Victorian-era paintings and a chandelier, but it was when he guided her upstairs did she become disquieted (well, even more so, considering she was walking in a serial killers' home)._

 _Hanging in the halls were paintings. Each one grotesquely detailed and all painted with dark red paint._

 _"These are a few of my original works," He sighed. "I put body and soul into these."_

 _Knowing what she does know about this man and his talent for murder and blood, Samara wasn't sure if he was being figurative or not. "I… can see that."_

 _"You're the first person to notice my work." He suddenly stopped. "So maybe you'll be a better inspiration than the other one."_

 _The brunette blinked, feeling her blood run ice cold at his tone. "What?" She whispered._

 _Thomas turned around, his brown eyes boring into her as a dead smile graced his lips. "The others were nice; pretending to like my art but wanting me to create something different for them. But you…"_

 _He started walking towards her and Samara did the opposite, walking back and keeping aware of any walls or stairs around her. She knew this was a bad idea. But Sherlock wanted absolute proof to lock this fucker away, what can she do?_

 _Swallowing her fear, the American hesitantly reached for her hidden pocket where the recorder sat along with her pepper spray, awaiting use. "W-what do you mean?"_

 _She pressed the button at just the right time. Thomas grinned. "You can be my muse!" And lunged._

 _The amber- eyed girl yelped and wiped out her pepper spray, catching him in the eyes. The blonde man reared back and screamed in pain, Samaras own eyes watering from the residual spray. But this gave her perfect opportunity._

 _'Evidence. I need to find evidence.'_

 _Her heart pounded as she dashed down the halls and called up Sherlock, the man answering on the second ring._

 _"I take it you didn't receive a confession. If he's giving you tea, don't drink it."_

 _Panting, Samara wrenched open door after door. Bedroom. Bedroom. Bedroom! "More like he tried to lunge at me and use me as his muse."_

 _"OH dear," Sherlock stated blandly. The brunette could just see him blinking once at the implication. "'use you as his muse'… That's not a real confession is it."_

 _Samara heard John faintly in the background. "Sherlock, what's going on?"_

 _But the girl giggled nervously as she continued her search. "Yes well, that's why I'm looking for his studio." Tea room. Game room. Bedroom again! "The likelihood of the girl being at least near his art studio -"_

 _"Is absolutely probable, considering he'd have to be with his supplies and canvas. When you find the room, be sure to look for any hidden doors or false walls; he'd not have her in the open, but somewhere close by." He then turned away from the speaker, "John, be a chap and call Lestrade." Then back to the phone. "We're in the garden, but we'll break in soon enough – somehow; these windows are high quality, capable of withstanding damage and surely soundproof."_

 _"Well isn't that a comforting thought."_

 _An enraged scream could be heard down the hall, followed by glass breaking and heavy thumps._ Whelp. That doesn't sound good.

 _"Not to leave you in suspense, but I have to go. Need to look for the room without any additional distractions."_

 _"What? Sa -"_

 _But she already hung up. She needed to do this. She needed to find that girl. She needed to put that bastard away, not for herself – but for the art community! He just gives artists a bad name._

 _Two drawing rooms, one tea room, and three guest rooms later, Samara finally found it. His art studio, decorated with easels, acrylics, pastels, oil paints, a paint-stained couch, blank and half-finished canvas' of all shapes and sizes._

 _Locking the door behind her, Samara started her search. The room was quite large and the brunette found herself jealous at this psychopaths' resources. If only her parents were rich bastards… Her thought process slowed when she turned to the middle of the room._

 _Something was there, covered with a white sheet stained with random drops of red. Walking over to it, Samara wiped off the sheet and felt her heart drop in disappointment; it was only a grotesque collage of wires and clock parts to take an arachnid shape._

 _Continuing her search, she jumped when someone started banging on the door. Based on the stream of threats of death and bodily harm, Samara was content in assuming that was Thomas._

 _Her search ended when she started to wonder about the bookcase across from one of the covered easels; it was ostentatious in design and only had a handful of books, none of them relating to art or art techniques– she'd easily get distracted if anything like that was in front of her._

 _Studying the case, the white dressed woman started feeling around before becoming irritated and simply pushed it aside till it fell over._

 _Samara had to squint her eyes when considering the dark hole in the wall but gasped at the sight before her._

 _It was the missing businesswoman. Her blonde hair was matted with blood and face a deathly pale shade. She was tied down to a bed and an I.V. was currently draining her of blood, slowly but surely. He wanted her to last, he wanted her to suffer. Samara felt sick to her stomach at that realization and acted with her only thought being '_ please still be alive _'._

 _Thankfully, the woman was. Her pulse was faint but steady._

 _However, just when Samara finished untying the woman and started pulling her out the hole, the door splintered apart, revealing an enraged, red-eyed Thomas, gritting his teeth as he squinted at Samara._

 _"You little bitch."_

 _Not knowing what to do, the brunette dropped the blond and reached for the closest weapon at hand – a slim silver letter opener with a fleur de lis handle, a prop most likely. "And you're a sick bastard," She goaded for no reason other than to keep his attention on her. "Killing all these people – draining them of their lives – and for what? Painting?!"_

 _"Beauty." He breathed walking over to her with a twisted grin. "Watching the light drain from their eyes, seeing the fear and realization that they aren't going to make it, having defiance slowly give way to helplessness is…._ inspiring _. Killing them – draining them of their life force so I could use their souls to not only create their likeness but use them for something greater. Even at their last moments, they never understood how significant it was. I thought that you of all people could understand that."_

 _Samara gave a derisive sneer at that last statement. "Obviously my false charm gave you the wrong idea. The only thing I understood from that was your perverse interest in creating absurd art with misguided symbolism."_

 _Just as she suspected, Thomas did not take her admittance at lying too kindly. The madman growled and dashed at her, allowing the girl to stab at his side, pull it out, sidestep him and stab him again without a thought._

 _The rich boy shouted at the sharp pain when she planted the knife in his shoulder and twisted it, but she gave no indication at hearing him. Instead, Samara swept his legs from under him and slammed him on his face._

 _When she realized what she'd done, Samara backed away in distress._ Why did I just do that _?_

 _It was then that Scotland Yard came in and pointed their guns at her, Lestrade quickly taking over and after one look at her appearance – a bloody stained hand and self-horrified expression – he ordered the surrounding police to make the arrest and get the paramedics for their still unconscious victim._

 _"Samara." His voice sounded distant as her mind struggled to grasp what she was feeling. "Samara, what happened?"_

 _"… He came at me," Her voice sounded small. Why did this all seem familiar? "He came at me and didn't know what else to do."_

 _"It's alright Samara." When he attempted to place a hand on her, the woman flinched, flitting her wide amber eyes up at him. Lestrade stopped, lowering his hand and only gestured for her to follow him outside. "We found Sherlock and John around the corner, they're waiting for you outside."_

 _"Are they now?" She answered dismissively. Her feet were steady as she walked, but her mind was on auto-pilot. What was she feeling? Is this what it feels like to be in shock? Her heart was still pounding, mind screaming at her to run, but all she can really feel was to laugh at the absurdity of her situation. "Oh yeah," The fog was starting to lift from her mind as she reached into her pocket, pulling out the recording device. Thankfully it was still playing. She handed it over to the confused DI. "Sherlock gave me this to record a confession. Hopefully, it might be enough to convict him."_

 _Walking out the mansion, guided to that ambulance and watching how events unfolded today, John and Sherlock sharing their own versions of concern as they saw them wheel out the killer and hearing Lestrade's' explanation after that did she finally realize what she was feeling._

Samara, for the first time in a long time, felt alive.


	11. Chapter 11

Samara wasn't used to having people over; in all her 27 years of living, she'd never got the hang of being a host or even maintaining small talk, so it was stressful to have her neighbors over so early in the morning for no apparent reason.

When she returned from the kitchen with a small tray of tuna sandwiches and tea, her phone was already on its fifth ring. Sherlock took a quick glance at it before focusing back on the woman steadily place the tray down while John awkwardly coughed.

"You're not going to answer that?" He asked when she sat down, phone to her left. Strange, didn't she have it in the center of her coffee table?

Picking up the Samsung model phone, Samara stared blankly at the familiar number before pressing decline. "Telemarketer."

"It was a San Antonio number," Sherlock pointed out, reaching for his cup of tea, glancing at the brown-haired girl with a piercing analytical stare.

Ignoring the stare, Samara reached for a sandwich and handed it off to Alecto, the beast of a dog chomping away at the delicacy. Petting her friend, the American answered, "If it's important, they can leave a message."

Just as she said that her phone vibrated, the screen lighting up and showing that someone left a voicemail.

Flipping the device upside down, she straightened up. "Anyways… What are you guys doing here, don't you have a baby to take care of?" She often heard that child crying once and a while, but the wails of a disgruntled child were starting to have become even more frequent as of late; maybe she was going into her terrible two's or something, she's never seen the kid. Should she congratulate them on that, or was that weird? Being congratulated by a neighbor they barely knew? Then again, she did help solve the Bloody Painter case with them.

"She's at the park with Molly," John explained the second part of her question.

"That's nice of her." She paused for a minute, waiting for them to explain. Who the frick-frack is Molly? Sister? "So why are you here?"

The sandy-haired man furrowed his brows and scooted from the comfortable middle of his seat. "I thought it was obvious – we came to check how you were doing. After the case, we were worried –"

" _You_ were worried," Sherlock interjected, taking a sandwich and tossing it to Alecto laying by Samara's feet, who caught it with a snap, happily munching.

" _WE_ worried that – about… We just hadn't seen you around as much."

The brunette sighed, running a hand through her hair. "That case was like a week ago, and you're still worried about me?" Samara didn't know if she should feel grateful or annoyed. Despite her confusion, she conjured up a small smile directed at the pair. "Don't be, I'm fine. Sure, it was… stressful at first, but nothing's changed. I always keep to myself, so there's no need for you guys to be worrying about me."

"You're taking this surprisingly well," John gave her a quick look over, from her slipper-clad feet to her jean and comfy long sleeve shirt, she appeared to be relaxing.

"Nothing to feel bad about, he was a bad man and I helped put him away."

"Actually, you put him in intensive care and –" Sherlock was interrupted by a jab at his side. Giving his friend (is that what they were?) a quick glare, the blue-eyed man rolled his eyes. "But I suppose the case finished quicker with your… help."

"So, besides that, how have you been? Any unwanted guests or the like? How's… Alecto?" Damn John for wanting to make small talk.

But Samara thought it only nice to indulge the man. After all, the only one she's seen him hang out with was the high-functioning sociopath scoping out the few canvases she has scattered across her room. "Nothing much, Lestrade told me I couldn't get the job but I applied at some places looking for a graphic designer and an art store looking for a drawing instructor. Oh yeah –" The amber-eyed girl sat up straighter once she recalled an important event. "After you guys dropped me off some dude called me."

"Do you know who?"

"Naw, some London number."

"It was Mycroft, most likely wondering who you were and why you associate with me. What did you tell him?"

Samara shrugged. "He got creepy, so I hung up. Then some car came by and people tried to take me away…" She took a long sip of tea.

John and Sherlock waited for her to continue. When she made no motion that was going to happen, the ever-impatient Holmes thumped his fingers against the couch's armrest. "And after that?"

The brunette finished her sip with a relaxed sigh. "After that they wanted me to come with them, but I just told them no thank you and to schedule an appointment for my kidnapping later." She glanced at her watch. "Actually, I think they're supposed to be here by now."

And like clockwork, there was a knock at her side door.


End file.
